Cure Your Aching Head
by E.N.HA
Summary: Apparently, the other side of doing business with P. T. Barnum is a massive hangover. The good news is, the circus takes care of its own.


Phillip wakes up to the smell of his own breath.

Oddly, that's not the worst part. No, the worst part is this: his muscles ache, a tiny railroad worker is hammering on the inside of his skull, and his stomach is bent miserably over his intestines. He tries to think who might be responsible for this. Usually the answer is Phillip Carlyle, but he just has the feeling, even before he opens his eyes and sees where he is, that someone has changed the formula.

Someone, apparently, who has let him sleep all night on a hard wooden floor.

The sound of a ridiculously loud piece of furniture being shoved around finally brings him out of it. His jacket is draped over him, the fabric scratching his oversensitive skin. He squints against the sunlight stabbing at his eyes and tries to focus on the burly form of P.T. Barnum. The man has his shirtsleeves rolled up – it's the same shirt from last night, did he even change after the bar? – and his hands braced on the edge of a worn desk. "What," Phillip says, and has to stop and swallow. Then he decides to change the question. " _Why_ …"

"Morning." The greeting is amused, huffed between breaths. One final scraping shove, and the desk slides into place across from Barnum's, obliterating a large portion of Phillip's mental function. "I won't venture to say _good_."

Barnum's words don't seem to fall into any recognisable sequence in his head. Phillip is genuinely unsure whether to blame his new partner or his hangover. "Tell me one thing," he rasps, and is that really his voice? "How much did I give up last night?"

Barnum comes over to stand above him, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know," he returns. "How much did you own?"

Phillip groans, burying his face in the bundle supporting his head. It is an expensive jacket, rolled up for a pillow and smelling faintly of whiskey and cigars, and it takes him a moment to realise it isn't his. He looks back up at Barnum, who is still looking down at him with laugh-lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Why am I still at the circus?" he slurs, at a loss for anything else to say. He can remember the show and meeting Anne and nearly being incinerated by a fire-eater, but beyond that…

"I couldn't get your address out of you." Barnum shrugs. "You're a very articulate drunk, until you lose consciousness."

"Did you just … _leave_ me here all night?"

Barnum gives him a strange look. "Of course not. I telegraphed Charity and bunked here."

Charity is…"Your wife." Phillip blinks disbelievingly. "You slept here instead of going home to your wife?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." Barnum says this lightly. "Problem, kid?"

How can he be smiling? Phillip squints, trying to find an edge of pain to Barnum's cheerfulness, but if one exists, it is hidden so far beneath the showman's veneer that he can't see it.

They are interrupted by a knock on the door. "Hey." The voice on the other side is irritable and short. "The swell still here?"

"Yeah." Barnum calls this over his shoulder. "He's awake."

There's a pregnant pause. "Well? You gonna ask us in?"

Barnum's grin turns rueful. "Sorry, Tom," he says, turning and going to the door. He opens it, and the three-foot general from the night before enters flanked by W.D. "Hey, you brought the water!"

"You asked, didn't you?" Tom – or is it Charles? – stares down at Phillip. "Over his head?"

"No no no, he's going to drink it." Barnum takes the large jug out of W.D.'s hands. "Sit up, kid, this'll help."

Phillip obeys cautiously, frowning at the massive jug. Exactly how much water does Barnum think he can hold? "You have room service?" he quips, relieved to find that part of his brain still works.

W.D. crosses his arms, making his copious muscles bulge. Phillip swallows, wishing his tact would reactivate as quickly as his wit. "Thanks, W.D.," Barnum puts in quickly, setting the jug down on the new desk. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," W.D. says in a low voice, still staring at Phillip.

Charles/Tom produces two stained glasses. "Sorry they're dirty," he says as Barnum takes them. "We starting drinking last night, and…well…"

So it's a circus thing, then. "Don't worry about it," Barnum assures him, setting the glasses next to the water. "We can't taste much anyway."

Oh, Phillip can taste. The film on his tongue is disturbingly reminiscent of the way the floor looks, and he knows it's not because he licked it. He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair as Barnum ushers the other two out the door. He's appreciative, but it's a relief to have them leave. Barnum's energy could power three or four people through a lively dance, and Phillip is having a hard time handling it in his current state.

Barnum shuts the door and walks back over to the second desk. He hops up to sit on it, legs dangling, and takes one of the glasses. "So," he says amiably. He tugs out a corner of his shirt, and before Phillip can process what he's going to do he uses it to wipe out the inside of the glass. "The good news is, the others like you."

 _By what standard?_ Phillip wants to ask, but holds his tongue.

"The bad news is…" Barnum holds the glass up to the light. The line between his eyes deepens, and he reapplies his shirt to the inside. "You're probably going to have to live here."

It's testament to how far gone he is that the proposition sounds workable. "Oh?" Phillip inquires politely, as if he's at a tea function with a dozen old ladies in lace.

"Mm." Barnum checks the glass again and sets it aside, then starts in on the other one. "You see, ten percent of my circus is…not bad. Not bad, no, for one man to live on. But it's not the standard you're used to. So wherever you're living…where _are_ you living?"

Phillip scrubs at the back of his head. "Uptown," he says.

"Well, I expect you'll need to give it up, at least for now. There are plenty of cheaper accommodations nearby, but it could be hard to secure something once people realise where you're working."

" _You_ seem to be doing well."

"Ah, but I know the tricks." If Barnum's trying for _modest_ , he's failing miserably. _Abashed,_ even more so. "The point is, there are rooms set up here for the performers who need a place to live. While you're looking for something decent you're welcome to take one of them."

It's good of him to think of it. "Thanks," Phillip mumbles as Barnum pours them both a glass of water. "I didn't really think that through."

"Probably the seven or so shots you imbibed. For someone who likes to get drunk, you're not very good at it." Barnum hops down and extends the glass. "Might want to rethink it, kid," he says gently.

Phillip takes the glass and immediately chugs down its contents. His father is always saying things like that, but for some reason it's different coming from Barnum. For one thing, he doesn't talk like he has a five-foot pole rammed up his trousers. And there's a kindness to his words and tone that Phillip can't believe is completely fake. "This is _your_ fault, though," he gasps as he lowers the drained glass. "As you _may_ recall."

"Well…" Barnum actually does look a bit sheepish now. "Tricks of the trade, like I said." He raises his glass in a mock toast and drinks it down in one go. When he's done he takes Phillip's glass and refills it, as if he's not the one who owns ninety percent of the circus.

It's like a sober version of the night before, and for the first time Phillip wonders why he's spent so many years subjecting himself to this, to this endless cycle of misery-party-whiskey-hangover. He's always blamed his parents for their shallow affection and even shallower expectations, but he wonders now if there wasn't something he could have done to change it all. If the carriage of his life wasn't going to stop and let him out, could he not have jumped, even if that meant risking everything? Wouldn't it have been better to feel the freedom of the fall even if it meant breaking his neck?

Barnum hands him his glass, and they drink together. "I thought you weren't hungover," Phillip grunts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He can't remember ever having done that sober in his life. It's strangely freeing.

"I hope I am." Barnum grimaces at the glass. "Otherwise I can't explain the untuned violin in my head."

Phillip actually laughs, as rough and pained as it is, and Barnum joins him. "I didn't thank you for last night," Phillip murmurs into his glass. "I don't think you realise what you did for me."

"Oh, I think I do."

"How can you? You have no idea what's it's been like."

"Well, you looked miserable, and then you looked less miserable, and now you look happy." Barnum smiles, shrugs. "That's all I need to know."

The water's helping. It's not sitting comfortably in Phillip's stomach, but it's better than all that emptiness, and if Barnum has something to eat around here they'll be well on their way. "I meant to ask," Phillip says suddenly. "What's with the desk?"

"Oh." Barnum glances at it. "That's yours. We'll have to share the office, but you won't mind that, will you?"

Phillip watches Barnum fill their glasses one more time, finally draining the pitcher. No, he won't mind sharing. Not with this man, who's apparently never had a boring thought in his life, who cleans up for plays and dresses down for hangovers and nurses his apprentice back to sanity. He doesn't know exactly what the repercussions of his decision will be, what he'll lose or what he's already lost, but it doesn't seem important. He stands in the light of a day different than any he's ever lived before, and he's changed.

He's almost sure his name is still Carlyle.

He's not sure it still matters.


End file.
